


Izzy and Ang

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Series: Izzy [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-25 15:05:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12038436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: “I’ve put you through a lot this past year,” Robbie goes on.  “And I haven’t always been grateful for what you’ve done for me.  But how can I trust you, now?”





	1. A house full of people

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the third in the Izzy series, picking up about six months after the events of Izzy, too.

 

Mark Lewis, who has not been home in fifteen years, is coming for Christmas.  In that time, he has travelled the world, married, adopted his Indonesian wife’s two children and settled in Australia.  In summer, their baby was born. 

When he left, he blamed his father for his mother’s death and made no secret of it.  He and Robbie rarely speak but Lyn says these old, sharp resentments have dulled and, after Robbie’s stabbing, there is a will to build bridges.  I tell my husband that of course he must bring Mark and his family over and we pay for the flights.

Which means it is basically my fault we are going to have a house full of people over Christmas and New Year and approximately five thousand around the table on the day.  Robbie is expecting me to book myself on the first flight to Australia and I cannot deny I am tempted.    

Izzy, naturally, is at the opposite end of the spectrum.  When he discovers he is invited, he is ecstatic.  He decorates the house until it resembles Santa’s psychotic episode and plants an unnecessarily large tree in an inconvenient place in the living room.  Amid the silver and baubles, we tell each other, ‘this too will pass’ while spending our lives extracting Monty from the lower branches. 

Mark, Mae and the children spend two nights with her cousins in London before coming to us late on Christmas Eve.  I am shocked when a younger version of Robbie appears on the doorstep.  The resemblance is so complete, it is strange to see father and son shake hands like strangers and hear the younger man speak with a mix of southern England and western Australia in his accent. 

Mark’s eight-year-old stepdaughter, Hana, asks if there is really a cat.  There is, although he vanished the moment the doorbell rang. 

The baby, Lara, is awake and cheerful, proving amenable to being held by Robbie.  He was in hospital and struggling when she was born and I am not sure the reality of this grandchild has, until now, sunk in for him, but she instantly wins him over.  

We are so busy shepherding everyone and their luggage inside we almost miss the nineteen-year-old boy hanging shyly back. 

“Ang, isn’t it?”  Robbie asks.  “Come in, lad.”  

Ang resembles his mother in height and slim build, but he is darker skinned, presumably taking after the estranged father.  When he speaks to accept the Coke he is offered, he still has a trace of the accent he must have had when he came to Australia ten years ago. 

**~** 

Robbie and I have moved into the ground floor extension so the family can take over the three first floor bedrooms.  I show Mae upstairs so that she can get the little ones settled and Ang disappears into the room we think of as Izzy’s. 

Once the workings of the house; the heating, hot water and Wi-Fi are explained, I go back downstairs.  Mark and Robbie are in the living room talking about Mark’s job as a firefighter in Perth.  Robbie is still not allowed alcohol but Mark has a beer and there is one on the coffee table for me.  I am heading with it for the neutral territory of an armchair when Robbie stops me and pointedly takes my hand to get me to sit next to him on the sofa. 

Mark gets the hint and laughs, “Okay, so this has really happened.  Did Lynnie tell you I didn’t believe it?” 

“She might have mentioned it,” Robbie says. 

“Well, I believe it.  Now I do.  I can’t get my head around it but I believe it.  I must admit, I thought you’d lost it.” 

When Mark left home, six months after his mother’s death, Robbie was drinking and not at his most rational.  It is hardly surprising he has been harbouring doubts. 

“Good,” Robbie says.  “So, it’s not going to be a problem?  James is my husband just as much as your mother was my wife.” 

“Understood, dad.  I mean it, congratulations.”  He raises his glass.  “Good onya, as we say.” 

Mark is soon summoned upstairs to read Hana a bedtime story and we are left alone.  With Robbie’s arm around me, we watch the twinkling lights on Izzy’s ridiculous Christmas tree, and listen to Paddington’s adventures unfolding in the quiet of the house.  When Robbie starts to tire, we switch off the lights, lock up the house and go together to bed. 

**~** 

Lyn, Tim and Jack arrive early on Christmas morning.  We are mostly up.  Mae is giving Hana and Lara breakfast while me and Robbie do dinner prep.  There is no sign yet of Ang but Mark comes thundering downstairs at the sound of his sister’s voice. 

Later in the morning, I collect Izzy, Else and Kat.  The girls have embraced the occasion with colourful party dresses but Izzy outshines everyone, causing the children to look on in wonder and Lara to abruptly stop crying.  He is glittering festively and proudly displaying his new jacket which, as he explains to anyone foolish enough to express an interest, is lime green crushed velvet with a purple lining, three quarter length and vintage, from the eighties.  An era he regards as distant as the Palaeolithic. 

I catch myself thinking, he might have got a better set of GCSEs if he spent as much time on his education as he does rooting around in charity shops.  I recognise this as the most dad-ish thought anyone ever had. 

The Half Moon contingent have brought dessert and I take them into the kitchen to look for fridge space.  There we find Ang, finally surfaced but retreating to the relative peace of the kitchen to eat his toast and peanut butter.  Else and Kat go quiet at his tall, dark handsomeness and he is too embarrassed to go on eating. 

Hana lobbies hard until we convene around the tree for presents and, in some quarters, great excitement.  Robbie, still not certified fit to return to work and always on the lookout for ways to occupy his time, has made sure there is something good in the tinsel snow for everyone. 

Izzy falls into raptures over the sewing machine Robbie and I have given him to help him with his dressmaking course and I am lost for words when I open my gift from Robbie; a watch engraved with the date in 2006 when he and I first met, along with the first words we ever exchanged; ‘are you for me?’. 

He staked a claim with those words, to the undisposed landscape of my heart.  A claim which he never relinquished. 

We three Lewis spouses find ourselves in charge of dinner while the reunion goes on in the next room.  We ponder the turkey, the ham, the stuffing, the pigs in blankets, the vegetarian pie, the roast potatoes and the parsnips and discuss how to initiate the quantum event necessary to fit everything into the oven.  Kat, the chef, puts on an apron and takes over. 

Robbie and Izzy between them have coerced me into reducing my cigarette intake to three a day and I go out into the crisp December chill for my second.  As I sit on the garden bench, in a leafy alcove among Robbie’s winter climbers, I am suddenly unexpectedly overwhelmed with the sense that I am living someone else’s life.  Because this lucky, contented one cannot possibly be mine. 

**~** 

Lizzie and Tony, bringing wine, are the last to arrive, and we sit down to eat, crowding around the temporarily elongated table in our dining room.  We start with raised glasses to Val and proceedings are then conducted in accordance with Lewis family tradition from cracker jokes shouted across the table at the start, to an argument over whose turn it is to ignite the Christmas pudding at dessert. 

I have never understood the need some people have to surround themselves with great circles of family and friends.  Even these last few years with Robbie, when I have been tucked into the generous embrace of the Lewis clan, he has always been enough for me. 

But I look around the table and see a kind of synergy take over.  Those who have not seen each other in years knit the frayed edges of their connections together, people who have never met before talk intensely.  Lara is passed from lap to lap, Tim gives Kat impromptu financial advice which Lizzie forcefully undermines and I feel as though I have known Mae all my life by the time the coffee is on the table.  Robbie, his paper crown the last to be discarded, happily presides, sometimes with two grandchildren in his arms.  Even Monty deigns to come home and curl like an emperor on an armchair, displaying provisional patience with Jack and Hana’s attempts to befriend him. 

I catch Izzy’s eye and see he cannot quite believe this is real either; that this is somewhere he belongs.  I suspect he will never believe in its permanence. 

It is after ten o’clock when I look across at Robbie and see him starting to flag.  I wonder how to persuade him to go to bed without embarrassing him but the party starts to break up anyway.  Lara has fallen asleep in Ang’s arms and Jack and Hana have almost finished plaiting and be-ribboning Izzy’s hair.  There is some discussion about washing up among the adults remaining, which I discourage and eventually coats and presents are collected and people get ready to go. 

Robbie comes to find me, wrapping his arm around me, letting me gather him in, “It’s been okay, hasn’t it, love?” He asks.  “Not too much for you?” 

“It’s been a beautiful day,” I tell him.  “Thank you.” 

I cannot get through any day now, or even any collection of hours without flashing back to the moment Steve Prescott put a kitchen knife into Robbie’s stomach, drenching the world in blood.  Today at least, I can listen to his laugh, feel the warmth of his body against mine, the beat of his heart, his breath in my ear.  Today at least, I know I did not lose him. 

Later, when everyone else has drifted off home or to bed, Mark and I start to clear up.  Once we get the dining room and kitchen as tidy as two quietly drunk people can manage, I put on a jacket, empty all the open wine bottles into two glasses and go outside for my last cigarette of day.  Mark follows with the same idea. 

“I still feel like I have to hide that I smoke from dad,” he says. 

“You can’t,” I tell him.  “It’s his special power.  He’ll have smelt it on you before you got on the plane.” 

He stands to look out over the garden as an icy breeze gusts through, “I’d forgotten how cold this effing city got.  Jesus.  It’d be enough to make me quit.” 

“Do you want my coat?” 

“Nah, you’re all right, mate.”  He takes a long drag of his cigarette while staring up at the clear sky, unexpectedly bright with moon and stars.  “James, none of my business but -” 

“What?” 

“Why dad? He’s old enough to be - your dad.” 

“Is he? He told me he’d been in the sun a lot.” 

“I mean what, twenty-five years, is it? And I can’t believe he ended up with a fella, either.  He’s like the straightest person on the planet.” 

I consider, ‘that shows what you know’, but on he goes. 

“No surprise he took up with another copper though.  It was always work with him.  That’s a special power of his; the disappearing act.  Married to the job for years.” 

“I doubt Morse gave him much of a choice.” 

“Fucking Morse.” 

“You knew him?” 

“He came by the house a couple of times, acted as if was visiting from another planet.” 

“That’s probably how he felt.” 

“Mum said dad was his only personal connection to the human race.” 

“Wise woman.” 

“And yours, maybe?”  

It seems I am transparent to all Lewis’, “Oh, no question.” 

“He always belonged to other people more than us.” 

“You’re not planning to say stuff like that to him, are you, Mark?” 

“Nah, course not, course not.  Twenty-five years though, do you really not think about it?” 

“I sometimes think, _Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year_.” 

Mark taps his glass against mine, “Fair enough, mate.  Fair enough.” 

**~** 

On Boxing Day, everyone is ready to get out of the house and there is a plan to show Mae and the children some of the sights of Oxford before meeting Lyn and her family for lunch.  

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” I ask Robbie as we get ready to leave. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“You could meet us at the restaurant.” 

“I said, I’m fine.” 

I am not persuaded; he does not look well and I think he needs a peaceful day at home.  But I have learnt, in these questions it does not matter what I think; he will do as he wants if he humanly can.  His recovery has been slower than he would like, beset by recurring minor and less minor complaints, frustrations and setbacks.  He has little appetite, he tires easily and sleeps fitfully.  He will deny all of this and I am not thanked for noticing, let alone trying to help.  

“I’ll rest when everyone’s gone,” he says in a more conciliatory tone but without surrendering any territory.  “No call to worry, James.” 

**~** 

In the end, the walk, under a glimmer of cool winter sunshine, is an easy one.  We take in a couple of the Colleges and famous churches, the Radcliffe Camera and the Bridge of Sighs and Mae calls a halt before things get too strenuous.  Lunch is at the Half Moon where Izzy and Else are back on duty and then the party breaks up with Ang going off on his own, Mae taking Lara and Hana home and Lyn heading back to the hotel with her family.  Robbie, Mark and me stop at a pub. 

It is a peaceful enough drink at first, but when I come back from the bar with the second round, I hear Mark’s aggrieved voice. 

“She wouldn’t have gone to London if you hadn’t left her alone so much.  How do you know she didn’t go and meet some bloke?” 

“That’s how you think of your mother, is it?” Robbie asks, his voice low and even. 

“I wouldn’t have blamed her. You were probably out picking up men half your age.” 

“That’s enough, Mark,” Robbie says. 

“Why, because you don’t want to hear it?” 

“I know I should have been around more,” Robbie says.  “For Val and for you two.” 

“And I suppose you’re always home for your three,” I snap at Mark, putting the glasses down hard on the table.  “You’re home for Ang and Hana, for Lara?  Are you?  You’re not working shifts for every penny?” 

“James,” Robbie says.  “It’s all right.” 

“No, it’s not all right.  Do you understand your father nearly died arresting a heroin dealer?  A gangster who murdered two teenagers and was responsible for the deaths of countless others?  That’s what he’s been doing all his life.  So how bloody dare you?” 

“In the meantime, we could have gone out and bought heroin every day and he wouldn’t have noticed.” 

“Look, fuck off, Mark,” I say.  “Leave him alone.” 

Mark has the grace to look ashamed as he slams out of the pub but Robbie does not seem surprised at the speed and manner in which the day has deteriorated. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that, James,” he says.  “I hoped we’d do better, for Val’s memory if nothing else.” 

When we get home, Robbie goes to lie down, saying he will be fine in a couple of hours.  Mae makes soup and sandwiches and when he does not get up I take him a tray and stay with him until he has eaten some of the soup and finally fallen asleep.  Then I go to the living room to talk to Mae while Hana, with all her colours, draws pictures of Izzy.  I do not tell Mae what has happened with Mark but he must have. 

“He’s always so angry about his mother,” she says.  “I hope he didn’t hurt Robbie.  He doesn’t mean to; he’s a kind man.” 

Ang is still not home by eleven thirty.  Mae has messaged him that the back door will be open but the policeman in me is not happy with that and I decide to wait up.  When I go outside for a smoke, I hear Izzy’s voice and laugh from the pathway leading to the back gate.  

The gate pushes open and he and Ang come in.  Ang, his black bomber jacket zipped to the neck, his hands plunged into his pockets, is taking the same view of Oxford winters as his stepfather.  Izzy has enhanced his Christmas jacket with a fake fur Cossack hat. 

Ang, distracted from Izzy’s story, glances in through the kitchen window.  When he sees no one, he leans in and kisses Izzy, softly on the lips, stopping him mid-sentence.  Izzy, after a surprised moment, kisses him back. 

“Guys,” I say to alert them to my presence. 

They both jump guiltily apart, which is, by far, the most entertaining thing that has happened today. 

Ang flushes, “I’d better go see mum.” 

He darts inside leaving Izzy gazing after him with a stunned half-smile.  I shift up on the bench so he can sit down. 

“All right?”  I ask him.  As far as I know, he has only been out with girls before; fleeting attachments with fashion students and gig companions in black eyeliner and miniskirts. 

“I thought he fancied Else.”  Izzy says.  We contemplate this unexpected turn of events until his phone pings.  He smiles at the message and taps a reply. 

“Aren’t you going in?”  I ask him. 

“We’re meeting up tomorrow.  Ang just wasn’t sure of the way home.  Inspector Hathaway, do you think Robbie would mind if me and Ang went out?” 

“No, why should he?”  

“Are you going to tell him?” 

“Probably.  Don’t you want me to?” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“It’s not good for me to keep things from him, that’s all.” 

“You’re sweet.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“I hope he’s worked out I’m a boy,” Izzy muses, only half joking. 

“You’ll be fine, Iz,” I tell him because I have no doubts. 

“Thanks, Inspector Hathaway.” 

“Is that a new hat?” 

“I got it in Barnardo’s.  Someone called me Anna Karen – Karan -” 

“Anna Karenina?” 

“Yes!  Is that really bad?” 

“I think, for Oxford, it’s a compliment.  It’s a novel.  We can read it next if you’re in the mood for Russians.” 

“Brilliant, thanks Inspector Hathaway.” 

Izzy wanders off to catch the last bus and meets Mark at the gate, greeting him cheerfully. 

“You know, I still don’t know who that kid is,” Mark says.  “Is Ang back?”  

“He’s inside.” 

He has a cigarette half-smoked and he stands in the garden to finish it. 

“Mae texted that the back door would be open,” he says. 

I don’t answer. 

He peers into the empty kitchen, “How’s dad?  Is he still up?” 

I ignore him again and he turns to me. 

“I suppose you want me to get out.” 

“Yes, I want you to get out.” 

“Okay, so don’t beat about the bush.” 

“But Robbie wouldn’t and there’s no reason why your family should suffer because you’re a wanker.” 

“I’ve been at a mate’s from school.  He told me I’d behaved like a wanker too.” 

I abruptly abandon my intention to blank him, “Just lay off him, Mark.  You’re not fifteen years old and he’s not all that well.” 

“Yeah, I never meant to do that.”  He sits down on the bench.  “I guess it’s been building up for a while.  I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise to me.  You didn’t accuse me of cruising men while my neglected wife died.” 

“Jesus, I am a wanker.  He just drives me mad, I don’t even know why.  And it’s not what you probably think; it’s not because he found himself a bloke.” 

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Honestly, I mean its mad, but you’re good for him.  Lynnie said he started getting better the day he met you.  And my son, you know, he thinks he’s gay.” 

“He told you?” 

“Yeah.  He’s cool with it.” 

I find myself reluctantly warming to Mark again. 

“He seems like a good kid.” 

“He has his moments.  Nah, he is a good kid.” 

“It can’t have been easy taking on a young family.  Hana must have been a baby when you married.” 

He lights up at the topic, “Ah but look at them, they’re gorgeous.  Look at my Mae.” 

And this must be another Lewis trait; a willingness to take the world, broken and wounded as it is, under their wing. 

I want to check on Robbie so I go inside.  He stubs out his cigarette and follows me. 

“Look,” he says before we go our separate ways.  “What do you mean dad’s not well?  He told me he was going back to work soon.” 

“He’s hoping to.” 

“But you don’t think so?” 

The surgery scar, the angry slash across Robbie’s abdomen, never quite healed, rises up in my mind’s eye. 

“He’ll get there. It’s just not happening as quickly as we hoped.” 

“And he’s not listening to anyone telling him to take it easy because it’s not what he wants to hear.” 

“It’s not like that,” I say more sharply than I intended. 

He shrugs an, ‘if you say so,’ and scrolls through messages on his phone. 

“We’re thinking about sending Ang to London for a year,” he says alighting on a text.  “Mae’s cousin says he can stay with them.  We can afford it if he works while he’s there.  Do you think it’s a good idea?” 

“Why not?  He’s finished school, hasn’t he?” 

“Yeah and he hasn’t got much of a plan.” 

“Isn’t he going on to college or anything?” 

“He’s bright enough but he says he’s sick of schoolwork so he won’t apply.” 

“He might change his mind after a break.” 

“Thing is, he hangs around with some neighbourhood boys and he’s been getting into trouble.  Mostly just stupid stuff but a couple of months back they borrowed some older kid’s motorbike and nearly wrecked it.  That scared me.” 

“London’s a good place for getting into trouble too.” 

“True enough.  But at least he’ll have a chance of a fresh start.  And I’d like him to see more of you guys.  We don’t know any older gay men.  No offence.” 

“No, none taken.  I’d say he should come here but Robbie’s health isn’t predictable yet and I’m always working, especially with him off the rota.  But we can keep in touch.” 

The next morning Robbie is up for breakfast and Mark gets us alone. 

“I was out of order,” Mark says.  “And I didn’t mean it.” 

“It’s all right, lad,” Robbie says. “I don’t blame you.  I never had the knack of not working.” 

“You worked a lot, so what?  We knew you loved us and we were bloody lucky to have you.  And mum was happy with you, really happy, dad.  I was just looking for someone to blame when she died and you were nearest.  I know I made things worse for you and I’m sorry.” 

The words transform Robbie, it is almost a miracle.  The Lewis family should give lessons because I have never known a Hathaway to let go of a grudge.  

The visit passes peacefully after that.  I go back to work but Robbie takes them out for day trips and keeps well.  Lyn and Jack come for a last family dinner and Ang disappears with Izzy when he can.  Robbie drives them to Heathrow a few days after new year.

 

 

 


	2. A dozen chilly Romans

 

Ang is enthusiastic, in his quiet way, about the idea of a year in London and he flies back in late spring.  He gets shop work and stays with Mae’s cousin in Harrow who has teenage children still at school.  Izzy goes to see him on days off and comes back with uncharacteristically vague reports of how things are going.  Eventually it becomes apparent Ang has started staying out late with a young crowd from work.  This is putting him into conflict with house rules on family dinners and curfews. 

The family make it clear they are fond of him but feel it would be best if other arrangements were made.  Izzy thinks this is a fantastic development and finds him a bar job at the Half Moon with the idea that Ang should come to Oxford and stay with him.  Mark and Mae ask us if, instead, we can take him until he settles in.  We obviously agree. 

At first, things go well for Ang in Oxford.  He is an immediate success at the Half Moon, taking quickly to bartending and working hard at it.  After convincing his parents, he joins the shifting population of Izzy’s flat share and they are, according to Iz, ‘well loved up’. 

For me, work is unrelenting.  Which is my excuse for not having any inkling of the disaster unfolding under my nose.  There is no budget for temporary cover so Robbie’s position has been vacant since he went off sick.  At the same time, the workload is stretching those of us left to the limit. 

We are suffering the repercussions of an upheaval in power relations in the Oxfordshire drug world.  This is partly due to Steve and Darren Prescott’s convictions for Robbie’s attempted murder, the murders we were trying to arrest them for when the attack happened, and multiple drug related offences.  Their gang has dispersed and their territory is up for grabs, resulting in an increase in violent crime as new allegiances are formed and a new status quo settles in. 

**~** 

A few weeks after Ang comes to Oxford, he is the brooding star of Izzy’s class fashion show.  We are invited to the evening event at Izzy’s college where each student is allowed five minutes to present their designs.

Izzy has been experimenting with suede and velvet and combinations thereof.  Fringing seems to be a feature.  Also, rhinestones.  He is everywhere on the night; showing off his own designs and almost everyone else’s but Ang, strolling down the catwalk to the Ramones wearing Izzy’s masterpiece; a long suede coat with velvet panels, is an impressive sight.  

I am proud of Izzy.  I know the work he has put into the course.  Everything he has achieved has been around his job and some, admittedly half-hearted, GCSEs.  He has quickly learnt dozens of new skills, even though the precision needed to execute a design does not come naturally to him. 

When it is the turn of the more advanced class to show its work, I see Robbie has his eyes closed.  I slip my hand into his. 

“Okay?” 

“I’m going to get some air,” he says. When I move to go with him, he stops me.  “Don’t fuss.” 

Robbie had an occupational health appointment this week, and had been counting on being cleared to return to work.  Despite his best efforts to persuade the doctor, he was signed off for another two months.  I wasn’t surprised.  The truth is, after almost a year, he is better but still not fully recovered. 

But I am not to ‘fuss’ and not notice that in this ordinary room, it is too noisy, too warm, too crowded for Robbie.  At moments like this I fear for him, fear he may never fully recover from what happened to him.  Fear that early retirement is not the worst outcome. 

Half an hour later, there is an interval and I wonder if I will now be permitted to join him. I take a side door I have seen other smokers use and, despite it being only seven-thirty, stop to light up the last of my daily ration.  There are a few smokers already taking advantage of the break, and at the far end there is a young, fair man in his twenties.  He is talking quietly on his phone and does not look to me like part of the fashion show crowd. 

Another door opens, releasing a flood of light.  I see the fringed arm of the coat Izzy made, a perfect fit for Ang’s slim frame.  He stands with his back to the door, not quite closing it and the young man finishes his call.  They have a quick, guarded conversation and Ang goes back inside. 

I am immediately suspicious, although I cannot pin down why.  I want to tap this blond kid on the shoulder and demand to know his business.  I don’t, I have no right to but, as the weeks go by, I wish I had. 

I find Robbie on a bench at the college entrance.  He is looking better and enjoying the mild evening but he is distracted.  

“Thought I saw someone I knew,” he says. 

“A blond boy, early twenties?” 

“That’s it.” 

“He was talking to Ang back there.” 

“Half Moon, then?” 

“I suppose,” I say. “I can’t keep track of them.” 

Neither of us are convinced but we think no more of it. 

**~** 

Ang, looking like he hasn’t slept, comes to our house one Saturday morning when we are having breakfast.  

“Would it be all right if I moved back in with you guys?” He asks. 

“’Course you can, lad” Robbie says after getting a nod from me.  “Everything all right with you and Izzy?” 

“Everything’s good.  Thanks Grandad,” he says, cutting off further questions. 

Ten minutes later, there is the sound of a bicycle on the gravel driveway and a key in the lock.  Half-awake and unbrushed, Izzy appears in the kitchen.  He looks relieved to find Ang there but the other boy avoids eye contact, staring fixedly at his phone.  Izzy is wearing a motheaten charity shop sheepskin over the Wonder Woman pyjamas that are his current favourite.  The coat seems to be upsetting Monty who perches on the back of a chair and hisses at it. 

“Don’t you start, mate,” Izzy says, despairingly. 

Robbie gives me a look which says, ‘none of our business’ and disappears behind his newspaper. 

Izzy gives up on Ang acknowledging him and turns to me, “I brought Orlando back, Inspector Hathaway.” 

He produces the book from a pocket.  I see it was to be his excuse for turning up if he had been called upon to make one. 

“How was it?”  I ask. 

“Yeah, brilliant.”  He follows me into the dining room where most of my books line the walls.  Monty creeps after us and prepares to pounce.  “I love Virginia.  Because it’s writing, but not like writing.” 

“It’s called Modernism.  It’s more naturalistic than all the Victorians we read before.  She concentrates on psychological insight.” 

“And people change sex.” 

“Yes.  Not that naturalistic, I take your point.” 

“No but it is; people get to be undecided.”  He sighs, looking down at the tormented cat.  “I better go.  Monty’s gone all ninja; he wants to kill me.” 

“He wants to kill your coat.  Is it made of mouse fur?” 

“The way my day’s going.” 

“What’s going on, Iz?” 

“I think it’s okay now,” he says.  “I think it is.” 

“Has there been some kind of trouble?” 

“I promised not to tell on him.  But you don’t have to worry.” 

It seems to be more than a simple argument but I resist my instinct to question him further and go hunting for our next book.  The ambiguous sexuality of Orlando leads me to Brideshead Revisited. 

“Cheers,” he says shuffling it into the mysterious layers of the sheepskin before saying goodbye. 

A few days later Robbie, for no particular reason except the usual, develops a high temperature.  I want to take time off work but he won’t let me and anyway, with three active murder cases, it would be difficult. 

I settle for asking Ang, who is usually home during the day, to call me if Robbie seems worse.  I don’t ask him to do anything but he quietly becomes essential to us, by preparing meals, keeping his water glass topped up and keeping Robbie entertained.  He educates him on his favourite video games and enlists his help in choosing the motorbike he is going to buy the minute he gets some money.  He works a miracle, so that I find my grouchy-when-ill husband cheerful when I get home each evening. 

**~** 

Lizzie and I are working late one evening, searching the house of the victim in our most recent murder case.  I am impatient to get home because Robbie is down with the same sickness he has been suffering from on and off for the last month but Lizzie gets a call when we are just finishing. 

“Sir,” she says. “That was the custody sergeant at Cowley Road.”  

“What is it?” 

“Ang’s been arrested.” 

I stare at her, “Ang?  Our Ang?  What for?” 

“Dealing.” 

“That’s impossible.” 

“Arresting officer was PC Gilbert.  Ang was selling marijuana at the back of The Queen Anne.  When he realised he was going to be charged and held overnight he gave your name.” 

“That can’t be right, he was working tonight at the Half Moon.” 

“Sorry sir, he was carrying weed.  Way more than for personal use.” 

“The little git.  I’m going to kill him.” 

“Go on, I can finish here,” Lizzie says.  “Shall I call Inspector Lewis?” 

“Yes. No.  Don’t disturb him.” 

Certain things fall into place.  Ang has been working a confusing schedule of evening shifts at the Half Moon but often does not come home until the early hours, long after the restaurant closes.  When Robbie tries to discover where he has been going he gets nowhere and all suggestions are politely ignored.  

And if Izzy found out what Ang has been doing, Ang’s move back into our spare room is also explained. 

The police have confiscated the drugs Ang was carrying and he has been held in a cell.  He will not be charged.  He should be.  He should be charged and released on bail, but they are turning a blind eye. 

He stands abruptly as I come in.  “Are you all right?”  I ask. 

“Yes,” he says.  He doesn’t seem to have been hurt and he is not high. 

“Is this true?  Were you dealing drugs?” 

“I wasn’t,” he says.  “I wasn’t dealing.  It was only weed.” 

“Cannabis is a class b drug.  It’s illegal to supply it.  What the hell did you think you were doing?” 

“They said it wasn’t, they said weed was going to be legalised in England and the police didn’t care.  They said it was just the same as selling alcohol behind the bar.” 

“They said, they said!” I bark back at him.  “But you didn’t mention it.  You must have known it was wrong or you would have.” 

“I knew you’d think I shouldn’t,” he concedes. 

“Who were you working for?” 

“I don’t know.  There was a guy called John.” 

“John?  Really?  Is that the boy you were speaking to at the fashion show?” 

He looks startled, “Yes.” 

“Surname.” 

“I don’t - he didn’t tell me.  I got talking to him in a club.” 

“Where do you meet him?” 

“He phones me and tells me where, different places.” 

“Have you got a number?” 

He shakes his head miserably, “I couldn’t contact him.” 

“And that didn’t tip you off?  Are you stupid as well as a criminal?” 

He takes a breath, like Jack when he is about to start sobbing. 

“Stop that!”  I snap.  “Don’t you dare cry.  Do you know who stabbed Robbie last year and almost killed him?  A member of a drug gang.  A colleague of yours.  Did you even think about Izzy?  You know about his mother, right?” 

“It was only weed!  His mum was on smack.” 

“How do heroin addicts get started?” 

“Izzy didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“It isn’t what you argued about?” 

“He thought I was smoking weed.” 

“Are you?” 

“No.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“I’m not!  It makes me throw up.” 

“Then why?” 

“Me and Iz want to go travelling in Europe when he finishes his exams but I won’t have enough money from the bar.” 

“Do you think he’d go anywhere with you if he knew how you got the money?” 

“I guess not.” 

“Good guess.” 

“I won’t do it again, I swear.” 

“You think that’s the end of it, do you?” 

“Am I going to prison?” 

I only mean he will probably have to go back to Australia but I realise he has not been told.  

“You’re not going to prison.  Sit down, come on, it’s all right.” 

He sits on the bunk.  He must have a thousand questions but he stares at the floor. 

“They’re not going to charge you.  You get off scot-free because of the love and respect everyone here has for your grandfather.  Do you understand, you’re getting a free pass because of him?” 

He nods emphatically. 

“And I don’t want him upset by this,” I say.  “We can go home now but you go straight upstairs.  I’ll tell him what’s happened when he’s better.” 

“Grandad’ll figure it out,” Ang says, showing more insight than me.  “He knew something was up, he doesn’t miss anything.  I’ll go to Iz.” 

“He’ll let you stay?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’ll tell him the truth?” 

He nods.  

“All right.” 

“Grandad.”  It takes a moment to realise he means me.  “Are you going to tell my mum and dad?” 

“I have to.  It’s up to them whether you stay.  But it would be best if you told them first.”                                             

“I’m skyping with mum later.”

They open the cell door and Ang walks free. He gets his phone back and speaks to Izzy who we find waiting at the door of his house.  Ang gets a smile and then he gets a kiss but the smile does not radiate joy as Izzy’s smiles usually do. He looks as though he cannot believe this is happening to him again. 

It is late by the time I get home and I am relieved to find Robbie asleep.  I pour myself some wine from the fridge and sit with it on the sofa.  I have not moved by the time he wakes me early the next morning.  

“What time did you get in?”  He asks, brushing his lips against mine, rescuing the remains of the wine. 

“About one.” 

“Is it another new case?” 

“I just got held up.” 

Robbie pauses to assess that answer, for all I know tasting my lie in the molecules of the kiss. 

“Ang’s back with Izzy,” I tell him, experimenting for the sake of evasion with seized up back and neck muscles.  “So don’t expect him to be around.” 

He gives me an odd look and does not reply. 

“How are you?”  I ask.  I see he is still not well; he looks as pale and tired as I must. 

“Fine,” he says and goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

**~** 

Mid-morning, I am in the office when I get a call from Mae.  Ang has been as good as his word and told her everything but she needs to hear from me that he is unharmed and will not be charged.  Mark phones a couple of hours later, fresh from an argument with the boy. 

“Jesus, James.  How does this happen when he’s living with two cops?”  I let him rant on while I go outside, four hours early, for a cigarette.  “Drug dealing?  Drugs!  Has he had them in your house?” 

Good question. 

“He says he hasn’t been using.  Do you think that’s true?” 

“I –“ 

“And this all happened too quickly.  Was he doing it in London?  Is that why Mae’s people chucked him out?” 

“He says not, he says they recruited him here.  And I don’t believe he’s using.  I think someone managed to persuade him it wasn’t a serious offence to sell weed in this country.  It’s what they do to get kids to work for them.” 

“Yeah, but he knows better.  He’s not as innocent as all that.” 

“Are you sending him home?” 

“He won’t come home!  He’s refusing.  He’s telling me he’s nineteen so I can’t make him.  He’s doing exactly what I did, the little sod.” 

I can hear Mae, somewhere in the background, telling him to calm down and Lara’s fractious cry. 

“If it helps, I think he meant it when he said he wouldn’t do it again.  He was locked in a cell for a good few hours.” 

“Never underestimate the stupidity of a teenage boy.” 

“I’m sorry, Mark,” I say, because I still do not understand how this has been going on under our detective inspector noses. “I really am.” 

“Ah, don’t be.  You warned me.  Seems we owe you for him getting off without a charge.” 

“Robbie mainly.  They did it for him.” 

“Are you really not going to tell dad what happened?” 

“I will when he’s better.  Just not now.” 

I get away for a couple of hours at about six.  I find Robbie on the sofa dozing, still in pyjamas and dressing gown.  The TV is muted, the breakfast things are unwashed in the sink and there is no sign of lunch.  Monty is a fixture on his lap.  When Robbie is well, he goes out every day for a walk or into town.  He keeps busy by inventing projects for himself and has become a half decent cook, filling the freezer with soups and stews.  But when he is suffering from these niggling illnesses, this too is taken from him.  Robbie wakes as I sit next to him. I can think of nothing to say he would not interpret as nagging so I wrap my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. 

“I’m sorry, James.  I’ll do better tomorrow.”  He turns my wrist to check the time on my watch.  “I never knew the days could be so long.” 

It is my new watch and the sight of it causes him to kiss my forehead.  His finger circumnavigates the watch face, tracking the passage of time; a dozen chilly Romans standing guard over each pearled minute. 

I have the opposite problem.  Soon my phone is ringing and I am needed at work.  I had wanted to make sure he at least ate something but have to be satisfied with extracting a promise that he will. 

I am getting ready to leave when he says, “And you’re all right, James?  Anything going on with you?” 

I want to tell him then, but he looks too frail to take the news and I do not. 

A week later, a DCI goes on sick leave and my workload escalates yet again.  My days get longer, my weekends disappear and I see even less of Robbie. 

At the same time, I am less worried.  Something seems to click into place with him and his health starts to stabilise.  He eats and sleeps better, he gets back to his daily routines and exercises.  He even makes an appearance at the required counselling sessions, possibly even cooperates.  He has an imminent occupational health appointment and is determined, this time, to get cleared to return to work. 

Ang also gives no further cause for concern.  He turns up at the station two days after his arrest, solemn and remorseful, to hand me an envelope of fifty-pound notes.  It is, he says, the money he earned selling drugs and he asks me to find a use for it.  We agree a charity and off he goes, leaving me speechless.  

With things seemingly safely resolved, I somehow, never find the right moment to tell Robbie what happened. 

**~** 

One evening, about three weeks later, I come home in time to have dinner with Robbie. 

“I think I might be going doolally,” he says without force. 

“How’s that?” 

“I was working in the front garden today and I thought I saw young Kieran Stanley watching the house.” 

“What?” 

“Driving passed a couple of times.  But didn’t you put him inside?” 

“That was Shaun, the older brother.  I’ll check it out.” 

“Ah, I could have got it wrong.  I’ve not set eyes on any of them in a year.” 

“You get an ID wrong? Come off it.” 

I invent an excuse to go out later and, at the Half Moon, I find Izzy resplendent in some kind of puffed up, floaty top made of net curtains.  

“It ain’t net curtains,” he claims.  “It’s burnt orange organza.  I made it myself.” 

“Well, yes.” 

“I do feel a bit like my nan’s front room window though.” 

“Did your nan have orange net curtains?” 

“And green ones upstairs.” 

“That explains a lot.” 

It is quiet in the restaurant; a Monday evening lull and Izzy stands at his station to welcome diners.  He has my ancient copy of Brideshead Revisited weighted open in front of him to pass the time.

I ask him if Ang is around. 

“Day off.” 

“Is he home?” 

Izzy shrugs, “Probably not.” 

I try Ang’s number but get no reply. 

“How is he?”  I ask. 

He beams, “He’s lovely.” 

“I’m glad to hear it but -” 

“ _To know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom_.” 

For a moment I am lost, “Are you quoting?” 

He shows me the page, “You underlined it.”  

I was sixteen years old when I made that pencil mark.  Twenty or so years would elapse before any such plant germinated in my life and pushed its fragile way into the light. 

“Is everything all right with Ang?” I ask.  “Has he had any trouble with whoever he was dealing for?” 

“He ain’t said nothing.  Why, what’s happened?” 

“Nothing, as far as I know.  Robbie thought he saw a familiar face near the house.  It might be completely unrelated.” 

“Or they might be looking for Ang at yours.  He swore blind he wouldn’t do it anymore.”  

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.  Robbie and me have put a lot of people away over the years.” 

“Does Robbie know what Ang did yet?”  Izzy asks. 

“No.” 

“It feels weird not telling him.” 

“I know.” 

“You said it wasn’t good to keep things from him.” 

“I know, Iz.  I will tell him.” 

Izzy has every right to tell me off.  He has been a faithful visitor throughout Robbie’s illness and indispensable to both of us in those terrible early days.  It is not in his nature to keep things to himself, as it is in mine. 

“Inspector Hathaway,” Izzy says. 

“Yes?” 

“Ang’s been staying with you, some nights, hasn’t he?” 

“No, not since he moved back out.  Has he not been coming home?” 

“I wondered why Robbie never mentioned it.  I should have known he was getting into trouble again.  I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

To know and love one other human being is to be a fucking idiot. 

“Just tell him I need to speak to him.  Tell him to phone me.” 

I have left a message for Ang and I go to the office to wait for him to call me back.  I give up and head home after two hours when I hear nothing.  I am alarmed to find the house in darkness and Robbie out.  I call him and he tells me he is on his way.  Something in his tone alerts me.  I soon hear his car in the driveway and when he comes in he hangs up his jacket and puts his keys on the hall table, all without acknowledging me.  

“Everything all right?”  I ask as he finally faces me. 

“Well, not really, James.  I’ve been talking to some of our informants and it seems my grandson is dealing for the Stanleys.” 

“No, he stopped, he promised -” 

He has not looked at me with such hurt and disappointment since I was a sergeant standing in the grounds of Crevecoeur, caught out in a lie. 

“I am aware the whole city knows apart from me.  We can talk about that later.  Have you found Ang?” 

“I can’t get hold of him.” 

“Me neither.  You’ve spoken to Izzy?” 

“He doesn’t know anything.” 

“Tell me what happened before?” 

“Ang was arrested for selling weed.  He didn’t know who he was working for.  They turned a blind eye at Cowley Road, out of respect for you.  Who told you he was still dealing?” 

“Charlie Reid.  I showed him a photo of Ang, and he recognised him from catching him at it last week.  He’s moved on from cannabis by the way; he’s now selling cocaine.” 

I check the time; Ang is probably still out there.  “I’ll try and find him.” 

“Do what you like, James, but I don’t think you’ll be able to. They send the youngsters out to all the clubs in the area, not just the ones in the city.  You know how big the Stanley turf is.  It’s even bigger now they’ve taken over some of the Prescott territory.  Ang could be anywhere.  Without police resources, you’ll be lucky to find him.”  He also stops me phoning in case an accumulation of missed calls from us puts Ang on his guard.  “If he’s anything like his stepfather, we won’t see him again for fifteen years.” 

“What can I do?” 

“Nothing.  We’ll see Ang tomorrow.  Have you been in touch with Mark and Mae?” 

“They know what happened before.” 

“Good.  We’ll have to send him home.” 

“He refused to go last time.” 

“We’ll see about that.  I’m going to bed now, I’ll sleep in the extension tonight.” 

“Robbie?” 

“I’m too angry with you, James.  I’ve just heard what’s been happening with my family from an Oxford hard case who seems to have more respect for me than you do.  Go and get some sleep.  If you think there’s any point, we can talk tomorrow.” 

He gets some things from our bedroom and takes them to the extension, closing the door behind him.  He has never shut me out before.  Never.  Even before we were lovers and I stumbled and betrayed him.  But now I have committed the ultimate crime.  By keeping this information from him, I have demeaned and belittled him.  If the news about Ang had set his health back, it would still, for him, have been better than this. 

I join Monty on the floor outside the little self-contained extension but we eventually realise he is not going to let us in and make our way to the couch.  I drink and Monty sends me reproachful looks from the armrest until we fall asleep; him first then, hours later, me.

 

 


	3. The loneliest man in Oxford

 

I wake to the cat trampling over me to get to the kitchen where Robbie is opening a tin of cat food.  Robbie makes tea for himself and coffee for me as he always does, but I am not forgiven.  I try out the speech that has been percolating through the sleepless hours.

“It happened when you were sick,” I say to the back of his head.  “And, whatever you think, you weren’t strong.  I hated not telling you and I meant to.  I just couldn’t bring myself to do it once you were so much better and it seemed to be all over.  And I am sorry.”

“You wanted to spare me pain,” Robbie says putting down the tea caddy and turning, the same hard look in his eyes.  “I understand that.  I know you’ve been trying to protect me but I would never have wanted something like this kept from me.  Do you know me at all, James?  After all these years, I don’t think I know you.” 

I am back in the last decade, investigating Simon Monkford behind my inspector’s back.  Learning nothing.  Each failure apparently more calamitous than the last. 

“I’ve put you through a lot this past year,” he goes on.  “And I haven’t always been grateful for what you’ve done for me.  But how can I trust you, now?” 

“You think you can’t trust me?” 

“We’ve always ignored the difference in our ages, but perhaps that was a mistake.  Now I’m just some old man you’re stuck with looking after.” 

“How can you say that?  We’re married, we’re supposed to look after each other. But you’ve resented everything I’ve done for you.” I can feel my own resentment boiling up.  “This is nothing to do with age, you nearly died.  When you came home from the hospital you could hardly walk across the room by yourself.  What was I supposed to do?  Just leave you to it, just not bother because you convinced yourself you didn’t need any help.  I love you, Robbie.  You don’t think you know me?  Do you at least know I love you?” 

He turns back to the counter.  “And I love you.  Did you ever consider that might not be enough?  I need time to think.” 

“Think about what?” 

“Can you just let me be.  James, please.” 

“Right.  Whatever you want.  I’ll go and get Ang.” 

“You’re due in court.” 

“What?” 

“You need to be in court by nine.”  I had completely forgotten about it.  “Go to work.  I’ll find him.” 

He is right, I can do nothing.  I am trapped in the crown court all day with Lizzie waiting to give evidence. 

I do not hear from Ang or from Robbie but I am hoping Izzy is still my friend.  I text him mid-morning and he sends back an unhappy face. 

_'Ang’s a nob,’_ he informs me. 

_‘Has Robbie been around?’_  

_‘In a right strop.  He dragged Ang back to yours.’_  

_‘Are you okay?’_  

_‘I’m the loneliest man in Oxford.’_  

_‘?..’_

_‘I’m Charles when they carted Sebastian away.’_  

Izzy quoting bits out of books at me is another thing I seem to have brought down on myself. 

When I finally get home, it is to an empty house; there is no sign of either Ang or Robbie.  I do not phone him.  This is Lewis business and I am leaving him be.  I realise what he must want me to do.  I book a room in a hotel in town, pack a bag and leave a note to let him know where I am.  Once checked in, I stand in the carpark and smoke tomorrow’s quota of cigarettes before going back to the office to catch up on the day’s emails and paperwork.  At about nine, Robbie sends me a text.  He says he is in the hotel bar and would like to speak to me.  He is on the phone when I get there, a bottle of water in front of him, talking tiredly to Lyn. 

“Ang ran off,” he tells me when he has said goodnight to her. 

“What did he have to say for himself?” 

“The Stanleys convinced him he owed them for the weed the police confiscated.  They told him he could pay off the debt by working for them.” 

“Do you believe him?” 

“It is how they operate.  After two weeks, he realised the debt would never be paid off and got scared.  They were looking for him yesterday because he hadn’t turned up for work.” 

“So why did he run away from you?” 

“He doesn’t want to go home.” 

“Why not?  Doesn’t he want to get out of their reach?” 

“Izzy.” 

“Oh, of course.  But he’s going the wrong way about staying in Izzy’s good books.” 

“I’ve spoken to Mark.  We’ve agreed Ang has to go back to Perth.  Unfortunately, Ang has a mind of his own.” 

“I wish he’d use it once in a while.” 

In the booth, we are shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, his leg against mine.  It is a relief to be in physical contact again. 

“Will you come home, James?” He says.  “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you.  I was angry but you didn’t deserve that.” 

His phone, at that worst possible moment, begins to ring insistently.  We see Joe Moody’s name come up on the screen.  

“Go on,” I tell him.  “Answer it.” 

He has a quick conversation and is on his feet before the call has even ended. 

“Ang’s in A&E at the John Radcliffe.  He’s been beaten up.  I’ll drive.” 

I call Izzy from the car and we pick him up near the Half Moon.  He is easy to spot; wearing his sheepskin jacket he has attracted a small crowd of neighbourhood dogs. 

“This is my fault,” he says breaking the tense silence we have maintained while Robbie negotiates the traffic. 

“Ang’s involved with some dangerous people,” Robbie says. “How can it be your fault?” 

“I found his stash and flushed it.” 

“When did you do that?” Robbie asks, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

“Before you turned up this morning.  He’d only come back to get stuff, you was lucky to find him home.” 

“If it’s any consolation, this probably happened because he was trying to stop.” 

“Heard that one before,” Izzy says. 

Ang is still in the emergency department when we arrive.  We are told he is awake and being checked and treated for injuries.  Only Robbie is allowed into the bay to see him. 

There is a uniformed officer waiting to take a statement.  She tells me Ang was found in the street by a member of the public who called an ambulance.  Due to his injuries, he has not been able to give any information about who attacked him but he named Robbie as next of kin.  I tell her I will handle things and send her away. 

Robbie finds Izzy and me in the waiting area, “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, speaking calmly but as angry as I’ve ever seen him.  “There doesn’t seem to be any broken bones or major injury but they’re doing a few more tests and waiting for a doctor to look at his X-rays.”  He grips Izzy’s shoulder.  “And lad, this isn’t your fault.  This is on me.” 

“Meaning?”  I ask. 

“I’m going now,” Robbie announces ignoring my question.  “James, you stay with Ang, don’t let him out of your sight.” 

“Where are you going?”  He does not answer.  “Tell me where you’re going.  Robbie.”  

“He’s feeling better, then,” Izzy observes as Robbie goes striding off. 

I am less impressed.  I phone Lizzie at home. 

“When can you get to JR?  I need you here ten minutes ago.  It’s not work, its personal.” 

“Jesus, on my way.” 

I quickly tell her the situation as far as I understand it and then go into Ang.  It is a shock to see the state he is in, with a half-closed eye and a swollen and bruised face.  If it is true he has suffered no serious injury, it is purely by luck.  I ask him to tell me what he told Robbie and he struggles to speak.  Eventually I understand.  The blond boy who calls himself John and someone who must be Kieran Stanley attacked him.  They did not know about Izzy destroying their merchandise because he had not reported for his last two shifts and had been hiding.  He thinks they followed him when he ran away from our house earlier today. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, looking past me at Izzy who has followed me in. “I didn’t want to do it.” 

I do not know why Robbie thinks this is his fault but I understand his fury. 

Lizzie arrives, ready to stay and keep an eye on Ang.  Robbie has taken the car we came in so she also gives me her car keys. 

My first stop is the club Charlie Reid part owns and manages. Charlie helped us out a long time ago when we were investigating the murders of Jo Gilchrist and Nicky Turnbull and has intermittently, on his own terms, become a useful source of information.  

I find him at his usual post by the bar.  He closes the distance between us when he sees me, all but pushing me back into the car, reeling off an address where I will likely find Kieran Stanley. 

“Your governor’s gone after him by himself, why’d he do that?  Why’d you let him?  The mad fucker’s as bad as Morse.” 

“Are you telling me Lewis has gone on his own to arrest Kieran Stanley?” 

“Am I not speaking English?  Ade Prescott is working with the Stanleys now and Robbie is not his number one favourite person, if you know what I mean.” 

Ade is Darren and Steve’s brother.  The Prescotts and Stanleys have always had cordial relations, forming alliances to keep out powerful Turkish gangs and now, following the cull, seem to have merged.  I am a step behind Robbie but I finally get it. 

“So, this was revenge?” 

“Course it was, son.  They were playing with the lad as payback against the pair of you.  Probably targeted him for a laugh the minute they found out who he was to DI Lewis.  These are dangerous people, Detective Inspector.  Kieran’s a thug and he’s got forty years on your old man.” 

The address is a pub twenty minutes’ drive away.  It is closed now and no one answers my knock.  Moody phones me when I am working out what to do next. 

“James, can you come in?” 

“Now? I’m –“ 

“If you’re looking for Robbie, he’s here.” 

“What’s happened?” 

“He brought in a suspect.” 

He has arrested, not Kieran Stanley but Ade Prescott who was at the pub Charlie pointed him to.  Ade could not resist boasting to Robbie about recruiting Ang and getting Kieran to target him.  He is being held overnight and even though he promptly denied everything, there are uniforms on the way to arrest Kieran at his flat. 

My heart almost stops with relief at the sight of Robbie, all in one piece, back at his own desk, typing a statement.  Then relief turns to anger.  

“By yourself?” I say, not keeping the disgust out of my voice.  “You went in by yourself.” 

“Don’t start,” he says.  “I didn’t go after Kieran.  I can handle a bloke my age.” 

“Ade Prescott is not your age and you didn’t know what you were going to have to handle when you went in without backup.”  I slam the office door shut. “All because I hurt your pride.  Seriously?  You know, I’ve already done waiting through the night to find out if you live or die.  Do you want me to do it again?  Is that the actual fucking plan?” 

“No one was going to die,” Robbie says.  “I’ve been dealing with the likes of Ade Prescott since before you were born.” 

“That makes it all right, does it?  It was stupid, dangerous and unprofessional.” 

“Thanks for the lecture on professionalism.  Next time I’ll complete a risk assessment for your approval.” 

“No, don’t bother, do what you want.  You carry on proving you’re indestructible until someone finishes you off.  And while you’re at it, find someone who isn’t stupid enough to care what happens to you, because I’ve had enough.” 

“Let’s talk when we’re calmer,” he says, perfectly calm and standing a foot taller than the last time I saw him.  He closes down his computer and puts on his jacket.  “I’m going to check on Ang.” 

He walks past me out of the office without another word.  I slam the door shut behind him and attempt to calm down.  I repeat my usual mantra; _he’s fine, he survived, he’s not hurt_ and I am capable of rational thought by the time Joe Moody comes in to see me. 

Moody tells me Ang has been admitted to a ward overnight.  A uniformed officer has been stationed at the John Radcliffe in case any gang member has thoughts of exacting further revenge.  He does not regard this as a serious risk; he has allowed it as a professional courtesy to Robbie and me. 

He has questions about Ang’s involvement with the Stanley gang.  It is an uncomfortable conversation as I try to diminish his role, as any deluded relative would.  He tells me he wants to bring a wider case against the gang; to disassemble them in the way we broke up the Prescotts after Robbie’s stabbing.  The charges relating to Ang will form part of the bigger picture.  I cannot be involved because of my personal connections with the case.  

His last bit of news is that the DCI on sick leave has been signed off long term and plans to retire.  Moody is taking the opportunity to review CID’s staffing structure and would I mind keeping her cases for a while longer?  Sure, why not? I can do three people’s jobs now I am not busy being married. 

Lizzie calls as Moody finishes with me.  I ask her how Ang is. 

“Cuts and bruises.  He’s being kept in for observation.  All being well, he’ll be discharged tomorrow.” 

“Should I come?” 

“No sir, you wouldn’t be able to see him.  Visiting hours are over, DI Lewis and Izzy are leaving now too.  There’s a uniform on the door, so you don’t have to worry.” 

Robbie drops her at the station so she can pick up her car and give me a lift back to the hotel.  Which she carefully does not ask about.  In my room, I pay a long overdue visit to the mini-bar. 

**~** 

Ang is discharged home the next day and I take a break from work to go and see him.  Robbie is busy in the kitchen when I come in. 

He greets me with a cautious smile, “Hello, James.” 

I imagine for a moment, what he is going through; believing he bears responsibility for what has happened to Ang.  But I find my anger undiminished and I cannot have the conversation I see he wants. 

“I came to see Ang, if it’s all right.” 

“The boys are upstairs,” he says, turning back to vegetable chopping.  “Izzy’s room.” 

Izzy silently questions me when I come in.  _Where were you last night?  Why didn’t you come home?_  I have disturbed his sheepdog instincts.  

Ang is in bed; still in a bad way but looking more alert and rested.  Izzy is curled around him.  He has his book open between them and Ang listens to him reading and giving a cheerful commentary.  He is working hard to make Ang smile.  Unlike me, Izzy is accomplished at forgiveness. 

“When we do our trip,” Izzy says. “We’re going to Venice to be Charles and Sebastian.” 

I close my eyes, _“…fierce sunlight on the sands and cool, marble interiors; of water everywhere, lapping on smooth stone, reflected in a dapple of light on painted ceilings...”_

“You just had that all in your head?”  Ang asks, incredulous. 

“It’s a bit freaky to be honest,” Izzy says. 

“From the person wearing macaroni.” 

“It’s penne,” he corrects, adjusting the necklace of different coloured pasta.  “And the little ones are for soup.  The pendant’s from a thing of pesto.  It’s definitely working better than the hula hoop one did.” 

“And they’ll appreciate it in Venice.” 

Finally, Ang laughs and Izzy is pleased. 

I give Ang the magazines I picked up for him on the way. 

“Thanks, Grandad,” he says going through a rapid selection process and handing any vaguely style related publications to Izzy.  “My dad’s coming.  Did you hear?  I’m supposed to go home.” 

“Don’t you think it’s for the best?  Considering the type of friends you’ve made here.” 

“Australia’s the pits,” he says.  “It’s so far away.  I don’t have to go, do I?” 

“I’d say you do.” 

He glances up at Izzy and they continue the conversation wordlessly. 

**~** 

Mark arrives a couple of days later.  I only know this from Izzy who, on his bicycle, buzzes anxiously between work, our house and the Airbnb studio flat I move to near the station.  According to him, Ang is recovered but has given up his job.  The flights home are already booked.  

One evening, he arrives after his evening shift finishes and I have just got home.  He has brought Half Moon lasagne, having decided I am pining away without food.  He sprawls across the armchair in my room, talking of Brideshead.  He has taken to it with his customary devotion and is mourning for Sebastian Flyte, now lost in Morocco. 

“There weren’t nothing Charles could’ve done for him, Inspector Hathaway.  Drinking like that, it’s the same as drugs.  You don’t need nothing else if you’ve got that, except money.  It weren’t mum’s fault when the smack got hold of her.” 

“Ang’s not the same as your mother, Iz.” 

“No, he’s worse.  Selling is worse.  But I think he was being thick, don’t you?” 

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt too.  Perhaps that is something you do for your own.  I judge the children of strangers more harshly. 

Izzy picks up my watch which is on the side table, admiring as he always does the engraving of Robbie’s fateful first words to me.  I focus less on the sentiment these days and more on the question it always was, it’s status having shifted back to unanswered, it’s mystery once again unsolved. 

“You and Robbie ain’t going to break up, are you?”  He eventually gets around to asking.  

I don’t answer; I’m not ready to address the question. 

We have not spoken since the afternoon of Ang’s discharge from hospital but I miss him as I would any essential part of myself.  I lie awake at night cataloguing my loss.  I miss the person who has been constantly beside me, the safety I find in him, the miracle of not having to explain myself.  Our house, our garden.  I miss our bed.  It still astonishes me, the escape sex brings, the merging of our ever-mismatched bodies.  Even in this tender-bruised year, we always found some way to touch.  I miss talking cases on the way to work, I miss a coffee and a sandwich at lunch, a sunset in a pub beer garden, a glass of wine at the end of the day.  Everything. 

So why stay alone in this cold, white room?  Why prepare, with serious intent, to throw it all away?  Because I spoke to Robbie in the heat of anger but I did not misspeak.  This is why I have not phoned, or mailed or visited.  Strangely, I am right and he is wrong.  I cannot give him what he wants; I cannot hold back time for him.  I will not pretend he is as strong as he was.  If my opinion has not changed how can I mend things? 

“How’s Mark?” I ask to change the subject.  “How are he and Robbie getting on?” 

“Not that good really,” Izzy says after some hesitation.  “Mark’s got a bit of a temper on him.  He keeps having a go about Robbie letting Ang get into trouble when he should have been keeping an eye.” 

I am not having that.

**~** 

When I let myself into the house the following evening I am expecting scenes of tension and conflict.  I am planning to have a quiet word with Mark and tell him again to grow up.  Instead, I find Robbie, Mark and Ang side by side on the sofa eating pizza and watching TV in apparent perfect harmony.  I see what Izzy is trying to do here. 

Mark gets up to shake my hand, “All right, James.  Good to see you, mate.” 

“How are things?”  I ask. 

“All good, just getting ready to head home.”  He turns back to Ang.  “You know what, we’ve still got to get that present for Hana.  Borrow the car, dad?  We can still make it to the shop.” 

Ang looks mortified at his father’s lack of subtlety but they are soon out of the house, leaving me and Robbie alone. We regard each other across the distance. 

“Ang looks well,” I say. 

“They heal quickly at that age.  Lucky for them.” 

“I’ve just got to get a few things from upstairs,” I say.  An excuse I prepared earlier.  “If that’s all right.” 

“You won’t stay for a drink?” 

“I’ve got to get back to work.  I’ve got a briefing in half an hour.” 

“Look, James, this is your home, you shouldn’t have to live in some pokey flat.” 

“Robbie.” 

“I know, I know.  But there’s plenty of room here, I can move to the extension until we, well, until we sort things out.” 

One way or another. 

“I’m not sleeping in that bed without you.” 

“And with me?” 

I refer back to the inventory.  Dismissing it. 

“Not with you either.” 

He nods and lets me go without another word. 

**~** 

I have not seen Robbie in over a week when I get a message from the Detective Chief Inspector in charge of the Stanley investigation, Jane Channing.  She wants to see me first thing and I go upstairs to her office. 

“James, thank you for coming up,” she says, not inviting me to sit.  “I wanted to inform you, as a courtesy, that Ang Lewis is in custody.”  I stare at her.  “He was arrested this morning on charges of supplying class A drugs for the Stanley family.” 

“On what evidence?”  I ask.  “Because, if you’re getting this from Kieran Stanley or Ade Prescott -” 

Ang was never caught dealing by the police and Izzy will not have left a gram of cocaine unflushed.  They might have a witness who is also a suspect, but I doubt a charge would ever fly. 

“I wasn’t aware I had to discuss my case with you, Inspector but I assure you the warrant is sound.”  DCI Channing is another of Robbie’s generation who will never willingly retire.  She has a way of peering critically over the top of her reading glasses at me, which Robbie has often enjoyed.  “Additionally, this is not Ang’s first arrest.  Although the documentation in relation to the previous matter is mysteriously missing.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” 

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’re building cases against the Stanley gang.  Why are you pausing to ruin Ang’s life?” 

“Force protocol on prosecuting those who sell class A drugs is clear.  The suspect’s position in the hierarchy is not relevant.  Or are you suggesting I make an exception because of his family connections?” 

“Come on, he’s a child.  What could you possibly achieve by prosecuting him?  Why are you doing this?” 

“Because it’s my job.  I think you’d better go and do yours unless you want me to tell CS Moody you are attempting to interfere with the investigation.  Again.” 

“What do you mean, again?” 

“Did you prevent PC Anwar from taking a statement from Ang Lewis at the JR last week?” 

“I didn’t prevent - Ang had been punched in the mouth, he couldn’t speak.” 

“Yes, I’m sure that was the reason.” 

She lowers her voice and speaks slowly for the hard of understanding.  

“His father.  Is taking him.  Out of the country.  He is a witness in the case against the Stanleys.  Does that trigger any alarm bells with you?  I say again, _witness._ ” 

I find my voice rising, “So you’re destroying him in order to use him as a –“ 

“James.”  

A familiar voice interrupts.  I turn to find Robbie standing in the office doorway.  He is unshaven and hastily dressed; the arresting officers must have arrived early this morning. 

“Excuse us, Jane,” he says. 

He steers me out of the office, “They’re holding Ang at Banbury nick to save him from running into any Stanleys.  Can you go there and help Mark?  They’re not letting him see the lad.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to have a word with Jane.” 

“Shall I get him a solicitor?” 

“He’s not going to need one,” Robbie says firmly. 

**~** 

I find Mark pacing the small waiting area of the custody suite at Banbury Police Station.  

“Any news?”  I ask. 

“No!  They don’t allow civilians in the cells and someone somewhere is making a decision about whether he can be brought out to see me.  Dad won’t let me get a lawyer and these people don’t seem to realise he’s a CHILD!” 

He raises his voice for the benefit of the desk officer, a PC in his thirties, who rolls his eyes.  I do not know the officer so I identify myself and show him my warrant card. 

“Good morning, sir,” he says.  “PC Ryan.” 

“My grandson, Ang Lewis is in custody here.  He’s recently been discharged from hospital following an assault.  Is there any way you can arrange for his father to see him?  Or if not his father, me.” 

“He’s what to you, now?” 

“He’s my grandson.” 

“How can he be –?” 

“ _Step_ , he’s my step-grandson.  So, can I -” 

“You got off with his nan?” 

“Guess again, mate,” Mark says, on the verge of hysteria. 

PC Ryan frowns as he wrestles with the conundrum. 

“Have you done any diversity training?”  I ask.  “Do you want some diversity training?”  I do not mean it to sound quite so menacing. 

I see light dawning and he grins, “Understood.  Oh, I know; you and DI Lewis.  Got it.  You’re the Hathaway that lamped Trev Field one, aren’t you?” 

“I’m sorry, but -” 

“You’re a hero in these parts for that.” 

“So, can we see Ang?” 

“No, you can’t.  He’s fine but I can’t let you in. Sorry, sir.  He’s had a doctor look at him, so you don’t need to worry.  But my orders are not to admit anyone without DCI Channing’s direct permission.  And that’s no one.  For his own protection.” 

“Well, can we talk to him through the observation window?” 

I see PC Ryan mentally interpreting his instructions and stretching them to accommodate the person who once thumped Trevor Field.  He allows me, but not Mark, five minutes to talk to Ang through the door hatch. 

Ang is sitting on his bunk, his head on his knees and arms wrapped round himself.  When he sees me, he straightens out and comes to the door. The bruises on his face have faded, although the traces of the attack are still visible.  

“Hi, Grandad,” he says. 

“Hello, Ang.” 

“Here again.” 

“Are you - did you get some breakfast?” 

“I’m good.  Is dad okay?” 

“He’s fine, he’s here.  And Robbie’s working hard for you.” 

He searches my face for clues to the true situation. 

“But I’m going to prison this time, aren’t I?” 

“I hope not.” 

“It’s my fault, if I do.  I thought if I worked for them for a couple of weeks they’d leave me alone.  Moron, right?” 

“They were manipulating you for their own reasons.  Do you understand that?” 

“Still a moron.  Will you tell Izzy, sorry, for me?” 

“You can tell him yourself.” 

“But if I can’t.” 

“One step at a time, Ang.  You haven’t even been charged with anything yet.” 

“Haven’t I?” 

That this is news to him worries me.  I wonder if I should get him a solicitor anyway.  Ang will confess to everything as soon as anyone asks him to.  He will stroll blindly into a conviction because Robbie thinks he can work magic.  

“I’m sorry about you and Grandad Robbie,” Ang says.  “Breaking up.” 

“Is that what he said happened?”  I can’t help asking. 

“He didn’t say anything, but he’s really sad.  It was my fault too, wasn’t it?” 

“Not your fault at all, Ang.  This was all us.” 

My five minutes expire and I go and wait with Mark.  I do emails while he paces and occasionally flings himself into the chair beside me.  Either because he thinks he can get around him or because he is a Lewis and cannot help himself, he makes friendly overtures to PC Ryan.  Before long they are exchanging invitations and comparing baby pictures.  The constable has obviously been pondering the current configuration of the Lewis clan. 

“Is it weird having a stepfather the same age as you?”  He asks. 

“Are you saying he’s not my real dad?” 

I smoked all of today’s cigarettes two days ago and I am wondering at what point I can start on the day after tomorrow’s when the desk phone rings and Ang’s release without charge is secured.  The terms are that he will undertake to cooperate with the criminal investigation into the Stanleys and return, at the family’s expense, if needed to give evidence in court. DI Lewis has personally guaranteed it, which is enough for Jane Channing. An efficient, almost but not quite, by the book solution that is so typically Robbie I almost cry.   

When Ang is collecting his personal effects, I turn to Mark, “Only your father could have made that happen.  You couldn’t have, I couldn’t have.  I would have ended up in the next cell for attempting to pervert the course of justice.  Just remember that.” 

Mark grins as Ang walks into his arms, “Got it, dad, life in the old dog yet.” 

I remind myself to remember it too. 

**~** 

A day or so later, I have stopped at the flat in the early evening for a shower and a bite to eat on the way back to the office when the doorbell rings.  I am surprised to find Robbie on the doorstep. 

“Well,” he says.  “You look all right.” 

“Shouldn’t I?” 

“I was told you had flu.” 

“Was it by Izzy, by any chance?” 

“Aye, it was.”  He shakes his head at his own gullibility and shows me the flask he has brought.  “I made soup.” 

“Come in anyway.  I like soup.” 

“It’s got all that stuff you eat in it.” 

“Vegetables?” 

“Funny.  Pulses and grains and whatnot.” 

“Thank you, I’ve missed your cooking.” 

“And I bet that’s a sentence you never thought you’d utter.”  He sits in the armchair looking disapprovingly around the small, impersonal room. 

“The kids are off first thing tomorrow,” he tells me. 

“I know; Izzy’s crushed.  How’s Ang taking it?” 

“He doesn’t give much away.  Mark and me are keeping a twenty-four guard.” 

“From what I hear, they won’t be calling him to give evidence.  I think they’re going to decide its more trouble than its worth with all the other stuff they’re getting on the Stanleys.” 

“Good, then he can put it behind him.  Not that he wasn’t counting on the flight over.” 

Our small talk peters out. 

“So, I’ve got some news,” Robbie says and his expression tells me it is not, for once, some variety of catastrophe.  “I heard from HR, I’ve been cleared for a phased return to work.” 

“I knew it had to be soon.  Congratulations.” 

“Looks like I’ll be able to start next week.” 

“Full duties?” 

“Desk at first but then, yes, I’ll be back on the rota.”  He is as delighted as anyone can be at the prospect of crime scenes at the break of dawn.  Meanwhile, I am pushing away a dripping red memory of his last working day. 

“And James,” he goes on, more hesitant.  “I want to have you with me once I start work again.  I want you to come home.” 

I resist the impulse to drop everything and follow him there. 

“Have you decided about me yet?”  I ask. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m the person who kept the facts of Ang’s first arrest from you.  You could barely look at me a week ago.  You asked me whether I thought love was enough to sustain our marriage.” 

“I’m not proud of how I behaved. I should have thanked you for looking after the lad, not made it about me.  And I know it wasn’t easy for you to carry all that by yourself.  I’m sorry, James, truly.” 

“You don’t have to apologise again.  We’ve both done that already.” 

“Then what?” 

“The point is, we haven’t resolved anything.  I can’t promise I wouldn’t do the same thing again, if you were sick.” 

I should have changed my name to Lewis when we married.  Why am I always such a bloody Hathaway? 

“I understand that,” he says.  “But I take it you’re not planning to make a habit of withholding information about my family from me.” 

“Of course not.” 

“Then let’s forget about it.  Let’s just forget it.  What’s to resolve?  Come home.”  He reaches across the short distance from his chair to the bed where I am sitting and takes my hands.  “How about it? Give me another chance.” 

“Robbie, it’s not that simple.  You scared me the other day.  Really scared me.” 

“I know.  And you were right.  I went after the Stanleys on my own because I felt like I had something to prove.  Would you believe me if I promised not to go into any potentially dangerous situations without back up?” 

“Could you promise not to go into any potentially dangerous situations without me?  No, better, can you promise not to go into any dangerous situations at all?” 

Robbie looks carefully at me for a long time.  It is the look that turns witnesses into suspects.  

“You want me to stop working, don’t you?” 

“No, I - no.”  He waits; let’s me find an answer I can give without stammering and then it comes.  “Yes.  I want you to stop working.” 

I have spoken a blasphemy and I have shocked myself.  But it is a relief to acknowledge it, a relief to bring this burdensome secret into the light. 

“You wouldn’t have been stabbed if you had been younger and faster,” I tell him.  “And what happened has slowed you down even more.  I’m so sorry, Robbie.  I don’t want you exposed to that kind of risk anymore.” 

Robbie looks down at our hands, still together, at our identical wedding rings. 

“I can’t stop working, James.  I’ve learnt one thing about myself; if I can work, I always will.  This last year has given me an idea of what retirement would be like.  I’ve felt like nothing.  I felt useless.  It almost killed me.” 

“No, Steve Prescott almost killed you.” 

Robbie’s hands slowly withdraw from mine, “I’d have had this conversation with Val if she had lived, I didn’t think I would ever have to have it with you.  What am I if I’m not a detective?” 

Which puts me in my place, I suppose. 

“I never thought we wouldn’t get past this,” he says.  “I thought nothing could come between us.” 

He leaves, saying a quiet goodnight and for the first time, the reality hits me; I am about to lose Robbie.  We have shouted and slammed doors, but now, without any drama, with too few words, we are falling apart. 

It is, unexpectedly, about work; the one thing we truly have in common.  I understand what Mark was getting at now; his sense as a child that he and his mother and sister were never more than a close second in Robbie’s affections.  I am not Robbie.  I could walk away from Oxford police without a second glance.  But I try to think of one thing I could not give up if he asked me to.  Not books or my music because there would be no joy in either without him.  I never even thought to take a guitar when I left.  Even the church, my constant friend and bitterest enemy, would slip easily away.  He is the dearest thing I have and, the truth is, I was never much without him.  But he is not me.  Robbie Lewis defines himself by his job and so, with a whole generation of years between us, we were always hurtling toward this point.  Steve Prescott and his kitchen knife only got us there ahead of schedule. 

Should I accept that the worst, which has already happened, might happen again?  I might hold him, bleeding, in my arms again.  Accept it and move on.  It is a hazard of the job and you do not have to be over sixty to fall victim.  If he wanted to, he could hand me a list of dead and maimed forty-year olds.  Should we just get on with our life together, keeping our fingers always crossed?  But what are my chances of functioning with that possibility at the forefront of my mind?  They should have sent me, not Robbie, to counselling.  This is my problem, not his. 

I sometimes wish I had more experience in negotiating human relationships.  I went from nought to marriage without so much as a quick-start guide to refer to.  What would a normal person do? 

I wonder whether it has all been worth it.  Whether it was a mistake to have reached out to Robbie that first night at the Half Moon.  My old self-contained world was a lonely, barren planet but at least it was uncomplicated by the intersecting lives of other people.  Robbie’s recovery, the poor decisions of his grandchild, Izzy’s broken heart.  None of this would have been my concern.  And I could have smoked myself to death in peace. 

It is no longer a valid question.  I am assimilated, their troubles are my troubles, I can imagine no other existence.  But here I am, consciously walking away. 

**~** 

I am still sitting where Robbie left me on the edge of the bed, dizzy with the circularity of my arguments, when a message from Mark arrives. 

_'Have u seen Ang!?  He’s taken his stuff and done another runner.  Izzy not answering either.  Me and dad going to the train/bus station.’_

The boy is nothing if not consistent. 

I text back that I have not seen them but will look.  With an objective, I can function.  Shoes, jacket, phone, keys, go.  

If Ang wants to disappear he will leave Oxford, but this is a recent escape and he has not had time.  He also would not go alone and Izzy might need persuading.  I check the Half Moon, Izzy’s flat, Izzy’s college.  I drive past the places in the town centre where young people gather and might hideout, the walkways and playgrounds around the grim estate where Izzy grew up. 

I drive past favoured hitchhiking spots.  I see two girls waiting for a lift north.  To my ancient eye, they look like lost children; too young to be out by themselves.  It makes me think of the other time I searched for Izzy; back when I didn’t trust him, when I thought he would break Robbie’s heart.  I know him better now and I know I am the one for that job. 

Hinksey Park is closed but security is not so tight you cannot get to the lake if you need to.  The sun is setting but there is enough light for me to find my way to Izzy’s bench. 

He is wearing his old animal print jacket, the one he acquired the day Robbie rescued him from the street, his talisman for good luck.  He sees me but does not attempt to warn Ang who is beside the lake kicking at the dirt.  Ang’s rucksack leans against the bench. 

I sit down beside him and Ang wanders over.  

“What’s going on?”  I ask. 

“He don’t want to go home,” Izzy says.  “He thinks we should go to Italy and Spain.  Not like a holiday, but to work our way round.” 

“And he’s checking with his mum,” Ang informs me. 

“What’s the verdict?” I ask Izzy.  “You don’t want to go, do you?” 

“I got my course and my job,” Izzy exclaims, defensive over a failure in spirit of adventure he has unexpectedly located in himself.  “I can’t just leave my mates.  And you and Robbie.” 

“You can’t uproot him from his life, Ang,” I say.  “Not now he’s finally got one.” 

“I don’t want to be in stupid Australia, when he’s here.” 

“What about your mum and dad, and your sisters?  What are they going to think if you disappear?” 

“I’d keep in touch.  I wouldn’t let them think I was dead.” 

“And Robbie.  He guaranteed to DCI Channing you’d help if you were needed for the case.  Are you going to make him a liar?” 

“I wouldn’t do that.”  He sighs.  “Izzy thinks I should go home.  Try and come back in a less twattish way.” 

“He’s right.” 

“I know it.” 

“If you had a plan, your parents would help you.  If you can prove you won’t get into any trouble.” 

“I do, kind of,” he says.  “Have a plan.” 

“What is it?” 

“Go on, tell him,” Izzy says. 

“I thought I might apply to train to be a nurse in Manchester,” he says.  “Like Auntie Lyn.” 

“It ain’t because of the drugs,” Izzy hastily explains. 

It is a beautiful idea.  I remember how Ang looked after Robbie when he was ill, without Robbie guessing he was being looked after.  

“You’d do well at that.  But you have to stop acting like a brat.  If you end up with a criminal conviction you couldn’t even train.” 

“I know.” 

I wonder if I am finished telling everyone how to live their life, “Are you ready?” 

He gives another reluctant nod and Izzy takes his hand.  I dial Mark.  

“We’re on our way.” 

I drive them home but don’t go in.  Robbie watches from the doorway but Mark comes out to thank me, to hug me goodbye. 

“Sorry for all the trouble, Grandad,” Ang says dragging his rucksack inside.  Izzy follows behind with a worried glance between me and Robbie to confirm his clever plan has not worked.  We are the loneliest men in Oxford. 

**~** 

I am at work the next day when a message comes through from Robbie. 

_'Mark and Ang despatched.  Me and Izzy are at Hinksey.  Why don’t you come?’_  

I have been panicking; mentally living through divorce and house selling and leaving Oxford, because how could we possibly work together?  I have wasted the morning getting angry in an interview room and Lizzie says, ‘for God’s sake go’ when I tell her I am going to take a late lunch.  

Robbie and Izzy are sitting side by side on the bench overlooking the lake.  I see Izzy has been crying and Robbie is resting his hand on his back.  

“Sit down, James,” Robbie says.  “It’s a lovely day.” 

It has been a dull summer so far.  Or perhaps a glorious one which I have failed to notice.  Today, though, the sky is cloudless blue and the sun golden.  I sit beside Izzy, taking off my jacket and rolling up my shirt sleeves.  I smoke a cigarette from November’s quota. 

“I’ve been saying,” Robbie says.  “It’ll do Ang good to be with his family for a bit.  He can take some time, settle down, make some plans.” 

“You did the right thing,” I tell Izzy.  “For him and for you.” 

He gives a watery nod. 

“And for me,” Robbie says.  “I don’t know what I’d have done if you had just taken off like that.  Made more poor choices probably.  After all, if you can make such a big sacrifice for love, why can’t I make a small one?” 

“It’s not small, is it,” I say, talking over Izzy.  “I’m asking you to give up your career.” 

Izzy turns to Robbie, “Ain’t you going back to work?” 

“That’s the question.” 

“I thought they said you could.” 

“But everyone’s got to stop sometime.” 

“Robbie,” I say, because last night was a long one and I had a lot of time to think.  “You’re not old and if the doctors clear you to work, then you should if you want to.  I’m the one with the problem.” 

“Inspector Hathaway lost it when you got hurt,” Izzy informs Robbie, unnecessarily. 

“He knows,” I say.  “That doesn’t mean he should have to stop living his life.” 

“James, I’m not going back.  I see how the idea scares you and I’ve no interest in putting you through any more pain.  And what’s more, I tried to imagine my life without work and my life without you and I realised which I wouldn’t be able to handle.” 

For a moment relief washes through me.  Then I am horrified.  What have I made him do?  He stares out at the lake, at a bird wheeling and swooping over the water.  He looks content. 

“So, what do you think?  Come home, James.  Don’t leave me.” 

“Robbie, how long will it be before you start to resent me?” 

My God, Hathaway, learn to shut up. 

Izzy turns from me to Robbie. 

“Ain’t there any Detective Inspector jobs where you don’t get stabbed the minute you turn up for work?” 

Robbie, after considering this, starts laughing.  And then I do too.

 

 

 


	4. Epilogue: A landscape from a dream

 

Izzy’s Christmas outfit is currently our gravest concern.  The December temperatures in Perth have rendered the majority of his rucksack, no doubt full of velvet and Wonder Woman, unwearable.  He has acquired a luminous pink dancing koala T-shirt with matching shorts for everyday wear, and goes about looking like an angry ice lolly.  But this, he says, will not do for Christmas Day. 

Mae and Hana help out with an early Christmas present of a sarong in designs of gold, green and red.  He adores it and puts his mind to the top half of the outfit. 

Christmas day will be spent on the beach which our rented house overlooks.   Robbie has brought Christmas crackers and a pudding but there will be no roast dinners; Mark and Mae, who live twenty minutes away are planning a feast of Indonesian specialties.  

We are eight days into our four-week break.  We both had annual leave accruing since Robbie’s sick leave started and were instructed to take it.  We never thought we would both get the whole time off but someone took pity and here we are. 

It is a challenge for me to adapt to such a long stretch of nothing to do.  I am mentally still ready for midnight callouts and fourteen-hour days.  Our white, sandy beach and the broad, blue horizon beyond does little to help as it seems a landscape from a dream. 

At first light, when my baffled internal clock wakes me, I go for as long a swim as I can manage.  It is a long time since I went sea swimming but I love contending with the force of the ocean, its press and yield.  I have lost the habit of exercise and it is taking time to find my old strength.  But I can feel that physical self stirring; a sleeping animal opening its eyes and stretching its limbs. 

Robbie joined me on our third morning, and then every morning after.  Now he is matching me almost stroke for stroke.  He was always stronger and more resilient than others of his age.  His stubborn determination to get better is paying off.  Even that scar finally seems to be fading. 

When the family are at school or work we make token efforts to see the impressive city; have lunch on the waterfront, admire the majestic geometry of the skyline, even plan a trip to a national park.  But mostly we lose the days on the shady porch with books, Mae’s guitar and dozing until a bottle of wine can respectably be opened.  At night, when the only sound is the whisper of the waves, we discover each other’s bodies anew. 

Izzy and Ang disappeared on a borrowed moped on day one and have not been around much since. Izzy remarked, as if this were somehow normal, that he cannot remember ever having seen the sea ‘in person’ before.  Ang cannot comprehend this and has made it his mission to teach him to surf, snorkel, dive. 

Since returning to Australia, Ang has been working in a nursing home while studying biology and chemistry at evening classes.  His classes have stopped for the Christmas break and he is negotiating as much time off work as he can.  When he can’t, Izzy drags a sunchair out on to the porch with us and attempts to teach himself to knit.  He has a collection of wobbly triangles to show for his efforts. 

Lizzie informed me that if I attempted to look at my email while away she would disable my remote access.  Robbie however, unhindered, takes out a laptop most mornings and connects with work.  He is plainly enjoying himself so I don’t try and stop him, although I am storing the information for future ammunition. 

He has been back full time for four months and has made Morse’s rank of DCI.  It suits him.  He fitted in perfectly to Joe Moody’s restructure because Moody wanted someone who could act as chief investigator for CID and leave him free to get on with the tasks most coppers hate and he relishes; the networking, politics, managing and PR. He even likes giving speeches.  

Robbie is a resource for the whole squad and we are all grateful for his insight, rationality and complete lack of management bullshit.  Having him there, has meant those at DS and DC level can take on more independent investigations and the workload has eased for the more senior ranks. 

Also, I get to call him ‘sir’ again. 

He admits, he would have found returning to the unsocial hours of his old job hard and he does not miss waiting around at freezing crime scenes.  He finds he loves the work so he is not the caged animal behind his desk he thought he would become. 

He does sometimes miss the bread and butter of police work.  He misses taking to the streets and I think the streets miss his shrewd, kind presence.  When Joe Moody isn’t looking, he keeps his hand in with a session in the interview room or trip to a local College to put an uppity academic in their place. 

I still experience a thrum of anxiety when Robbie is not home and not with me but he always tells me when he is leaving the station and who he is going with.  As if he did not already know it, he is married to a lunatic and must make the appropriate allowances. 

At least out here, those concerns vanish.  All I have to worry about are man-eating spiders. 

On Christmas morning, when we return from our swim we find the house adorned with glittery Santas, elves and all his reindeers.  Izzy has returned.  

Ang dropped him off late on Christmas Eve before heading home himself.  They could not fit a Christmas tree on to the moped but a potted palm has been pressed into service.  It is attempting to maintain its dignity under the weight of baubles, tinsel and lights.  We find him at work on the Christmas table out on the porch.

“How’s that?” He asks when there is a snowman table cloth, snowman candles and snowmen napkins. 

“I think the Snow-Person Protection League would have something to say about it,” Robbie says.  “It’s going to be ninety in the shade today.” 

“It’ll be carnage,” I say. 

“I’ll get the Christmas kangaroos,” Izzy says disappearing into his room.  “I loved them but Ang said you would think they were trashy.” 

Something must happen to my face because Robbie puts his hand on my shoulder, “Let’s just assume he’s joking.” 

He isn’t, of course. 

The family arrive a couple of hours later so that Mark and Mae can take over the kitchen.  Lara is toddling now but attaches herself to Robbie.  Hana searches for Izzy, in vain because he is getting ready.  Even Ang isn’t admitted.  All the children have caught on to calling me Grandad.  I no longer find it strange but Robbie thinks it is hilarious. 

When Mark goes off for a smoke, Robbie follows him out to tell him I have not had a cigarette since the day he and Ang left Oxford.  This is true.  I decided if Robbie was giving up his dangerous activities, it was only fair I should too.  He also tells him I don’t miss it.  This is not true. 

There are presents under the palm and we convene before lunch to open them.  This is when Izzy, with a chain of gold stars woven into his hair, makes his entrance to applause, and I see the extent of Robbie’s complicity. 

Apparently when it comes down to it, they have the same notion of appropriate hot weather wear and it seems Robbie has loaned him a certain blue and gold Hawaiian shirt first seen by me at Heathrow Airport more than a decade ago and last seen by me when I took it out of our suitcase the night before we left.  It is an appalling combination with the sarong but I am the only one who sees this. 

The shirt takes me back to that first day, commemorated already by my watch and the question, ‘Are you for me?’.  Under the palm there is a small box for Robbie.  This year he also has a new watch, also engraved.  The only word is ‘yes’ and I can say it with certainty because we have been tested. 

 

End

 

September 2017

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter one, James quotes from 'God's World' by Edna St Vincent Millay. James and Izzy quote from 'Brideshead Revisited' by Evelyn Waugh.


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